“Let that subject drop, then,” Percival Nowell said lightly.  “I suppose you have some remnant of regard for me, in spite of our old misunderstanding, and that my coming is not quite indifferent to you.”

“No,” the other answered, with a touch of melancholy; “it is not indifferent to me.  I have waited for your return these many years.  You might have found me more tenderly disposed towards you, had you come earlier; but there are some feelings which seem to wear out as a man grows older,—­affections that grow paler day by day, like colours fading in the sun.  Still, I am glad to see you once more before I die.  You are my only son, and you must needs he something nearer to me than the rest of the world, in spite of all that I have suffered at your hands.”

“I could not come back to England sooner than this,” the young man said presently.  “I had a hard battle to fight out yonder.”

There had been very little appearance of emotion upon either side so far.  Percival Nowell took things as coolly as it was his habit to take everything, while his father carefully concealed whatever deeper feeling might be stirred in the depths of his heart by this unexpected return.

“You do not ask any questions about the fate of your only child,” the old man said, by-and-by.

“My dear father, that is of course a subject of lively interest to me; but I did not suppose that you could be in a position to give me any information upon that point.”

“I do happen to know something about your daughter, but not much.”

Jacob Nowell went on to tell his son all that he had heard from Gilbert Fenton respecting Marian’s marriage.  Of his own advertisements, and wasted endeavours to find her, he said nothing.

“And this fellow whom she has jilted is pretty well off, I suppose?” Percival said thoughtfully.

“He is an Australian merchant, and, I should imagine, in prosperous circumstances.”

“Foolish girl!  And this Holbrook is no doubt an adventurer, or he would scarcely have married her in such a secret way.  Have you any wish that she should be found?”

“Yes, I have a fancy for seeing her before I die.  She is my own flesh and blood, like you, and has not injured me as you have.  I should like to see her.”

“And if she happened to take your fancy, you would leave her all your money, I suppose?”

“Who told you that I have money to leave?” cried the old man sharply.  “Have I not said that I am a poor man, hopelessly impoverished by your extravagance?”

“Bah, my dear father, that is all nonsense.  My extravagance is a question of nearly twenty years ago.  If I had swamped all you possessed in those days—­which I don’t for a moment believe—­you have had ample time to make a fresh fortune since then.  You would never have lived all those years in Queen Anne’s Court, except for the sake of money-making.  Why, the place stinks of money.  I know your tricks:  buying silver from men who are in too great a hurry to sell it to be particular about the price; lending money at sixty per cent, a sixty which comes to eighty before the transaction is finished.  A man does not lead such a life as yours for nothing.  You are rolling in money, and you mean to punish me by leaving it all to Marian.”